Page 12 of Geoffrey the Very Strange
The quiet hummed in Geoffrey's ears with Cecil gone. Strange, how a person could miss even annoying things once they became familiar, but this was better than leaving Grandma wondering. She did worry—he knew that—and though she didn't approve of his choice of path, she had never interfered with his studies.You'll find your way, Geoffrey. That had been her final word on the subject, and after that they just avoided discussing his necromancy entirely.
He strode out to his foyer to pick some dead or dying plants for his next set of experiments. A little niggle of shame lodged under his heart whenever he saw how he'd been neglecting them. Any witch in his family would've done better, and with that in mind, he took the can and fetched water from the nearby spring.
The wormwood was doing well, and the belladonna. The nightshade—definitely thirsty. His rosemary pots—two of them had died. The astilbe Grandma had brought up from her garden—for some color, she had said, since it had no magical or medicinal uses—still thrived. The pink blossoms looked as if they were trying their best to cheer up the darker plants. Come to think of it, they were the same shade of pink as a certain half-demon's hair.
Aspic. What kind of a name for a half-demon wasthat, anyway? All the ones Geoffrey had met had names like Fury and Wanton and Nighthorns. Not only that, they were amoral, sensuous beings with dark, ulterior motives, not bright, chipper, skinny delivery boys with pink hair.Pink.
Geoffrey took the deceased rosemary pots back to the lab with him as his thoughts thundered around in his brain. It wasn't that Aspic wasugly, of course. Something about mixing demon and human heritage produced beautiful children. He had a handsome face and lovely hands, and despite the color, his hair looked so thick and soft it made Geoffrey's fingers itch to touch. Not that he would. Ever. No. He was sure Aspic was nice enough, but he was so annoyingly bright-eyed and… andsweet.
His mini-kestrel was adorable, though, and Geoffrey did approve of rescuing animals.
Just a distraction, and he didn't need distractions, not when he was so close. Geoffrey opened to the page showing the comet pattern, the first alternate pattern in the book. Yes, start there and go in order. Instinct told him that a mixed-shell-and-stone pattern would be the answer, but leaping around without any strict methodology was how results became muddled and answers occluded. Comet pattern. Clamshells only. Work from there.
"Hey, Geoffy! I'm home!" Cecil reappeared in a puff of shadow, transporting a covered basket.
"I see. Don't call me that. What do you have there?"
"Dinner. Grandma Tutti sent our favorite. Red bean stuffed buns."
Geoffrey rolled his eyes. "Those areyourfavorite."
"Well, yeah. But you don't hate them. There's also vegetables and stuff. Yuck."
Geoffrey lifted the cover and found thatstuffincluded a bowl of cauliflower-cheese casserole and some palm-sized plum tarts. Cecil's definition of yuck was bizarre.
"I hope you said thank you." There went that guilt worm again, tapping at Geoffrey's heart.
"Of course! I'm not some barbarian imp." Cecil plopped onto the desk with a bun half as big as himself. "Eat something first, boss. Don't want you fainting in the middle of an incantation."
The imp had a point, so they ate while Geoffrey outlined his plans, and Cecil grumbled about how much work that would be. Though he did concede that he didn't have anything better to do. Once they'd packed the dinner leavings and basket away in the storage room—wouldn't do to introduce extra variables into the workspace—Cecil helped him set up the comet-pattern chalk lines with the clamshells.
Geoffrey rolled up his sleeves, gathered his magic at his center and, in a strong, sure voice—this was key—pronounced the incantation to reverse death. Nothing. Not even the stirring of a single leaf on the departed rosemary.
He recorded the pattern, components, and result, then pointed to the containers of seashells. "All right. Now just the mussels."
Again they set up, and again, nothing. Completely expected. Geoffrey would have been shocked to have a positive result so early in the process. They worked through all the shell types individually, then started over with the next pattern, shells at the indicated points of each chalk drawing.
During the final round of the last pattern—limpets set on the wave pattern, the rosemary rustled so slightly—Geoffrey had to run the incantation three times to make certain neither one of them had bumped the altar.
"Interesting."
Cecil walked around plant, sniffing. "So that's the one, then?"
"No. That was a start, but we haven't hit it yet." Geoffrey turned the page. "Back to the comet pattern again. Clams and limestone pieces."
Several hours and eight pages ofThe Fine Art of Deathlater, Cecil dropped onto his back on the altar. "That's it, boss. Just sacrifice me instead. I'm done."
Geoffrey stared at him, his tired brain struggling with this new element. "No. I don't think that was part of the experimental plan."
"I'm kidding, Geoffy. It's almost dawn. I'm beat, and you can't think straight." Cecil pointed at him. "Go take a nap."
"Oh." Geoffrey looked up at the ceiling as if he'd be able to see the impending sunrise through solid rock. "Is it that late?"
"Yes." Cecil pointed back at himself. "Shadow imp. I know when day is coming."
"All right. Yes. Fine." Geoffrey collapsed on the palette in the corner, and before he could form another thought, dropped off to sleep.
"Hey! Hello? Is anyone home?"
